Category Archives: World poetry

Steffen Horstmann

Blue Thunderhead    III

Desert winds whisper sutras in Dari today.

Sikh mystics chant mantras in Domari today.

 

The shadows of panthers emerge from a forest,

Dissolving in mist rising from the Chari today.

 

The voices of Furies persist in gales raving

At the abandoned temple of Circe today.

 

In Kashgar’s glistening mirages

Figs ripen to a tint of dark honey today.

 

Whirling leaves have become notes of music

Breezes hum at the graves of the Shoshone today.

 

Inca doves singing in the olive groves

Emulate the voice of Calliope today.

 

“From night till night and now … As easily as song–”

Wailing shells thrash trenches at Gallipoli today.

 

Djinns inhabit catacombs echoing

Scriptures sages chant in Sivandi today.

 

Vishnu levitates above the Sarasvati today.

Whirlwinds thrash temples in Amravati today.

 

Falcons rise from the tombs of the Anasazi today.

Winds polish relics in the ruins of Ghazi today.

 

 

 

Shadow of the Djinn

Raindrops fall like pearls

Around its shadow.

 

A band of silver light swirls

Around its shadow.

 

The shaitan’s voice whirls

Around its shadow.

 

Darkness a cloak the wind hurls

Around its shadow.

 

A speck of gold dust whirls

Around its shadow.

 

White sand streams in whorls

Around its shadow.

 

[As starfish emit gold auras in deep sea caves]

As starfish emit gold auras in deep sea caves,

Schools of krill glisten in translucent waves.

 

Pink locusts ravage millet crops in the Sahel

When Harmattan winds stream in radiant waves.

 

Salt dunes glint in coastal wastes where the sky

Is a sea surging with clouds shaped like waves.

 

Silver fig trees inhabit mirages on plains

Patrolled by the militias of warring enclaves.

 

Jasmine incense coils from stone lanterns

As sages summon rain with timbrels & claves.

 

Kafra’s fortresses collapsed on the tombs

Of gilded mummies in a labyrinth of caves.

 

The Corinthian sun throbs like a heart,

Evaporating blue mists flowing from caves.

 

Thunder hushed the massacre of the Ma’dan,

With dust still uneasy on their hurried graves.

 

Petrified anemones adorn stone coffins

In the burial chambers of Coptic naves.

 

Where Marian Apparitions Appear

Where crystals are shattered by a djinn’s shriek.

Where from scriptured vases oracles speak.

 

Where a phoenix’s shadow inhabits

The white smoke of smouldering teak.

 

Where in webbed catacombs sibyls

Recite Homer in Latin & Greek.

 

Where circling falcons form vortexes

In sapphire skies jet streams streak.

 

Where orchards swarm with butterflies

That migrated from Martinique.

 

Where Marian apparitions appear

At secret shrines sages seek.

 

 

The Crowned Knot of Fire

“All manner of thing shall be well

When the tongues of flame are in-folded

Into the crowned knot of fire

And the fire and the rose are one.”

̶ T.S. Eliot

 

 

Chords floating from strings

Of an Orphic lyre.

 

Moths with flaming wings

Swarming a coastal pyre.

 

White diamonds studding

A Byzantine spire.

 

Saffron clouds shredded

By a whirling gyre.

 

Blue light streaming

From a Persian sapphire.

 

A rose forming within

The crowned knot of fire.

 

As Agha Shahid Ali’s student, Steffen Horstmann  studied the history of the ghazal form and began writing his own ghazals in English. Horstmann’s poems and book reviews have appeared in publications throughout the world, including Baltimore ReviewFree State ReviewIstanbul Literary ReviewLouisiana LiteratureOyezReview, Texas Poetry Journal and Tiferet. His book of English ghazals Jalsaghar was published in 2016.

 

Amir Sarem

Nowruz (new day,The first day of the Year)

Each day is eternal new day everywhere on earth with you
Northern hemisphere southern hemisphere across the equator
Any moment any point is always the starting
Mm mm of this planet is endless wonders
All of the earth is remembrance everything is your notice
My eyes bright always upbeat
The most bitter pain transient the sky full of stars
I never laugh away from you
Lights are all gone
Everything strained
And infinitely sad world
To eyes visions to accesses
Away from you
I never laugh .

Noon at the station
When you arrive Left newspaper Was on the bench in the shade New-rise sun in the sky Visions were sliding in full of people street At there the same time Left newspaper is yet in the shadows The sun new rise that you arrive You arrived I looked at the ground that you came You arrive and new-rise sun The sun was just rising Maybe you Maybe.

 

Oblivion rhythm
Going people years hours Looking for their names and delusions Name delusion life delusion victory delusion And love delusion and pain delusion delusion of their me’s I have not lost my self I lost my name With think to you to human to the world To change at any moment From pre-tail to this tail the world has become another world This word has become another thing Everything becomes everything else In the impermanent time each word has become else Nameless Without any following and address I float in a vacuum From pre-tail to this tail Me has become another me.

 

 

Amir Sarem a poet from  Iran.

Kapardeli Eftichia

LIVES IN LOVE

Adorn the life with love
the great destiny
eyes trapped in future
God of love
guard

Growing at all times
those who love conspire
and heart weight without crashing, keep
and does not buckle, flower defoliation
and blooms

Lives were in confident heavens
free with God similar
submerged, omnipotent
of old
prison …
and when the day conquer
nonstop blooming

It stars pieces primitive
without interpretation, invisible
love works.

 

Spring gentle rain

Through the thin shadow
the small cloud
a sudden peaceful, humble
spring gentle rain
irrigates the soil

 

From music and
frantic dance
the most
small forgotten
grass awakening
are delivered, thirstily

 

In this hugging the
full of smells
Sun lowers
smiling again winner
the calcined stones
the rain thousands of kisses
he had left.

 

New Era

Bare to the invitation
wolves the
friends at the erosion
and the falling
give birth vanishing desires
with subjection patterns
in seduction games

In fossil tree
of courtyard that
painted children in
flash of lightning
and at calcined wind
the Eagle’s Nest built

I wake up from the dance secret
of rain the erotic body of the earth
New Era

In winter light
in the city of your eyes
wings colorful pinned
butterfly of your dreams.

Dr. Kapardeli Eftichia has a Doctorate from ARTS AND CULTURE WORLD ACADEMY.Born in Athens and live in Patras.She writes poetry, stories, short stories, xai-kou , essays, novels.

Brandon Marlon

Upcountry

Inland wayfarers halt at a ramshackle bivouac

off the beaten track by the vermeil light

of sunup for last-minute victuals

as they ready to surmount hurdles,

their eyes aloft toward the summit distant

and neutral to their quest, at best.

 

They espy just ahead amid cacti

the bleached bones of carcasses

picked clean by vulturous scavengers,

beneficiaries of time and chance.

 

Smoke from breakfast fires spirals

yonder into the plain, masking chaparral

and startling patterned rattlers

from their cozy dens onto the warmth

of earth cracked and peeling.

 

Equipped to ascend, the living know

well how impartial wilderness remains

toward civilization’s refugees

who place themselves at the mercy

of forces amoral and untamed;

yet life ever seeks other life,

undaunted by the pitfalls and perils

nested amid nature wild and inviting.

 

Meridian

Some nights stay up till dawn, lost in fugues

of yesteryear; here, of halcyon days and nights

on spacious plains where humped herds

grazed and stampeded, thundering earth

with a rumble echoing through ages,

resounding in the songs and crafts of tribes

carnivorous yet respectful, careful to satisfy

survival’s exigencies, not sport’s excesses,

natives fated to be slain, outthrust from

or corralled within clannish lands overrun

by herds of another kind, droves of long-lost kin

pushing piecemeal seaward unto destiny.

 

Vernal longings distract the nostalgic,

yet the wise recognize, in the wake of scorched earth,

chaparral; amid ghosts, offspring in the flesh.

 

Elders know dolor should receive hospitality,

never tenure. They gaze and glean how yonder

stars burn clearly all through the night,

as must all to view dawn’s new light.

 

Tropics

Ships furrow the waters out at sea

while civilization’s refugees

anneal on the beach,

their pestering cares a world away.

 

By the quay a lone stevedore ignores

heat and thirst, dragging hawsers

along the towpath to moor crafts

gently yet securely, his funicular expertise

accrued over many seasons in austral regions.

 

Below the surface, migrating turtles pause

to munch on seagrass meadows

rich in essential nutrients

while lemon sharks chase rays

through the mangrove’s red roots

growing in tidal shores and deluged

twice daily with saltwater.

 

Aloft the torrid orb parches

equally, the clime’s merciless overlord

punishing by its very presence,

conferring both favor and wrath,

defiantly resisting twilight till

the decisor nightfall settles the struggle.

 

 

The Great Synagogue of Constanta

Amid the forsaken sanctuary grows a tree

green and lanky, tilting with the wind

ever since the roof partially collapsed.

Standing sentinel is the yellow fleurette

Star of David overseeing the amassed debris

below, a congeries of chipped cement,

smashed stained glass, plaster, and wood beams,

ruins overgrown with shrubs, carpeted with dirt.

Arched colonnades uplifted by blue pillars

attest to the Moorish Revival design

of a halidom once admired by Ashkenazim

from near and far keen on the sublime;

now only mean dogs frequent the detritus,

foraging for kosher remnants of another sort.

Where now there lies a rubble heap

once stood a palace aglow with worship;

where filth now strews the floor

once stood congregants before the upraised scroll,

devotees enthroning on their praise the Most High.

The building is the body but the assembly

is the soul; bereft of its sacred entrails,

the desacralized shell succumbs to the elements,

a bittersweet vestige verging on demise,

its hallowed scenes enshrined in memory.

 

Statesman’s Memorial

The deceased, inert in the flag-draped coffin atop a bier

overhears the laudation from a choir of admirers

come from near and far to pay final respects

in a solemn assembly of mourners.

 

Outpourings of grief, gratitude, and melody mingle

under the vast canopy shading from desert sun

ministers, dignitaries, and grandees

keen to preview what their own funerals might resemble.

 

The honor guard stands now at attention, now at ease,

as protocol officers direct proceedings,

rabbis mutter prayers, and the cantor’s voice

chaperones the soul heavenward unto angels.

 

Harmonious diapason cedes to sober monody

as attendees rise and watch uniformed pallbearers

shoulder mortal remains and escort them to their

resting place to be inhumed and covered with sand.

 

None speaks ill of the dead; at such an hour,

elision serves as dignified handmaiden of grace.

Only merits and service are mentioned;

only good intentions are recollected.

 

Let us warmly praise, and bless, and forgive

and ever bear witness to the good;

may our eyes espy virtues

and our mouths pronounce appreciation.

 

 

Brandon Marlon is a writer from Ottawa, Canada. He received his B.A. in Drama & English from the University of Toronto and his M.A. in English from the University of Victoria. His poetry was awarded the Harry Hoyt Lacey Prize in Poetry (Fall 2015), and his writing has been published in 135+ publications in 21 countries. www.brandonmarlon.com.

 

Len Cristobal

Of gods and ghosts

 In the city, the guns are gods

at night and fat ghosts in daylight,

the sun kneels on a dead-end street

thick with deep red mud drying

before two eyes, open and still,

gaping cold at golden badges.

Above are doves flapping like

windows left unshut in storm.

 

The news sheds skin, and lips

are leaves rustling back home,

wild dogs slaver at the mouth,

steeled for hunting beside the king,

whose crown is a round nest of blades

and tongues that spit on blindfolds

and scales of men who fish for hours

 

and the carefree lope along

but we know in life, we are fools,

in the garden of power, mere bugs,

in freedom, corpses with wings.

 

 

Wo-mangroves

 In a small village near Xuan Thuy National Park in Vietnam, Pham Thi Kim Phuong starts her day at 4:00 am, preparing food for the family and for the cattle. Before the sun rises, she bikes seven kilometres to the mudflats by the park’s mangroves. –Mangroves for the Future (MFF)

She stands like a queen

on the scrambling fingers

of a giant that grovels at his feet

and sees her tears merely

barren gobs of earth.

Her knotted ligneous parts

and jade thickets hamper

relentless tides, guarding

life in water, on land, and

under her til the flood ebbs

and the river settles.

Inside her is not granite

or the blue lace agate

but salt, the kind that

can nourish and numb.

Do not judge her when

the gold dime in the sky

boils her temper; be water

in her broad, emerald leaves.

Even serpents with scales

that suffocate us from afar

find solace in her breadth

the way turtles, snook,

worms, and sponges do.

 

Len Cristobal is a writer from the Philippines. Her writings have appeared in local newspapers and magazines and on international websites. She holds a bachelor’s degree in Broadcast Journalism and is working on a collection of essays, short stories, and poems

Michael O’Sullivan

The dissolution of beauty

There was a time when beauty

Ignited senses in creative ways

Then arousal replaced beauty,

Its short thrills scuppering engagement,

The suspended sentence of sleaze

Rounded up all my potential,

Impounded my versatility,

Until the shortest way through

Was the longest way home

And the long dark night of the soul

Seemed worthwhile for the shudder

In the loins before the leadean beauty

That hoisted the dark streets on

The residential freshly-mowed lawn

And the three-bed detachment,

Squatting down low to my optic

Fibres in spotlighted isolation.

Beauty is so deceiving

It barely acknowledges itself

Before it is upturned

Made to revolve around itself

Until it becomes a

Digital assistant,

The image and likeness

Of my tired, vacant eyes.

 

 

Working with my father

I wasted the day again

But realized it too late

About midnight

After reading Carver

Then I revived and wanted

To work on something.

I tried remembering the thought I had,

The one about working with my father

That morning,

Leaving his house in St Lukes together early

To carry the saw up to the skip of junk,

I wanted to saw the two old timber doors in half

And the old guttering.

The saw cut through the wet wood like

A knife through bread

My father looked on

Over my right shoulder

The morning was breaking

-Ah don’t be doing that

-Surely you don’t have to do that

But I was already half way through the door

And I was enjoying watching the teeth tear through,

The door from an old shed the previous owner

Had put up in the sixties or seventies,

Coated in tar with two pieces of wood

In a big X on its back for extra support.

I wondered what he’d make of me

Destroying the door he’d built one summer day in the sixties,

A man with a family.

I have no family,

Was this why I enjoyed the destruction?

I worked from both sides until only an inch was left uncut.

I turned the door over,

Leaned it against the concrete garden border

And came down on it with my foot.

It cracked in two.

My father ahead of me,

Eighty,

Carrying these half-doors down the hill to the skip,

-Thanks so much for the help Dad,

-Don’t be thanking me at all,

-I find this work relaxing

Later that night I thanked him again

His sigh

-Ah, this morning.

 

 

I wanted Cork

I wanted Cork to be my Wessex or Lake District,

My Cheapside or Yoknapatawpha country

But I couldn’t stop leaving

Long enough for to discover it

Behind my inflections,

Assertions, associations,

That loaded it with

Solid anger and desperate bewilderment

For leaving me behind,

Emotions too rigid for its

Shape-changing, meandering

Opinions and intonations,

Its steely-jawed, skinny-necked,

Self-inflated, irrational logic.

 

I was like the son living too long

With his mother

Rising her only to have her complain

So, they could come together later

Over an apology.

But Cork accepted no apology,

Only ever deflected it back,

Its muddy banks and seventeen bridges

Knowing well what Heraclitus

Meant when he wrote about running waters.

 

 

I keep building homes

I keep building homes

Only to have the homes

Fall down around me.

 

There are so many kinds of filth here,

So many I can’t tell the dirt from the filth,

The filth from the grubs, the grubs from the worms.

When I feel, something detaches from the side of a finger

Through a muddy kitchen glove

I’m thinking it’s of its own volition.

 

So many kinds of filth and decay

I had never thought so much was undone.

Stubborn paint scrapings, rotten wood splinters,

Passive mud, ruthless concrete chips,

Drenched deciduous leaves,

Woodlice, dead woodlice, old matted cobweb,

Chrysalis crypts, cocoon shells,

Spider skeletons, scurrying centipedes, evicted ants,

Migrant dust, scattered dust, skin-like saturated plastic,

Old rusted pipe, treacherous broken broom handles

Laced with woodlice crusts and cobweb,

Fungus scraped off a damp gable wall,

Old nails entrenched in masonry,

Stolid moss, cuttings from a dead tree,

Shards from a plastic watering can

Left out too many decades

in the undergrowth.

 

It’s a struggle to collect it all

Into the black bag for the baby skip

So, they can take it to the dump

Pack it down

Treat it

And break it down some more.

 

Dumping the remains of one man’s labour

A generation ago

On a day, he worked

To clear a space of junk

And build something new.

Michael O’Sullivan is a writer, critic and teacher based in Hong Kong. His poems have appeared in Asiancha, Desde Hong Kong: poets in conversation with Octavio Paz, and Quixotica: Poems East of la Mancha. He also writes stories, essays and creative criticism. His recent books include Academic barbarism, universities and inequality and Weakness: a literary and philosophical history.

Michael Mulvihill

WRITERS HEAD ON A STICK

They used to shoot the messenger,

But this horde wanted gore,

A torture and a killing from the days of yore,

A piece was writ that had too much grit,

It told truth,

Stung a few living demons that wanted blood,

And thus, was vowed there shall be blood,

Off went the writer’s hands thrown to starving dogs,

Plucked out of sockets went his pair of eyes,

Knee capped by a shotgun as a chainsaw started on,

When all was done, his body remains was fed to crocodiles in a zoo,

As this horde, this cult of death,

Raised their flag outside a mansion,

And placed the writers head on a stick,

A thick stick yes,

But none the less a stick,

The hurly burly was done,

What was achieved in this process?

 

 

The Full Truth

We had everything,

Now all we have is this planet that we steel and asset strip,

Inherited wrongs,

Breathing like a virus,

 

The modern law,

Justifying and rationalising the unethical,

Until the grip in its lecherous nature is growing like chicken weed on the arteries of your soul’s heart,

See the avarice roar,

See consumerism dwell in the midst of nothingness and meaninglessness,

 

Over exerting power,

And authority to,

Crime grows,

 

Mr. Mammon does not forbid a thing,

He does not forbid war,

As long as you can economically rationalize it.

He does not forbid exploitation,

Mr. Mammon is a pig,

He is proud,

He grunts when fully contented,

His enemies he regards as enemies to humanity,

Venial sins grow to mortal sins,

They create a chain reaction,

Adam and Eve

Or just ourselves.

 

 

Big Fictions-Schizophrenia

The time is now,

The story began months ago,

Now in,

Lacerated rational reasoning,

The I had been displaced over another I,

What a metamorphosis,

 

The skull is frightened by the eagle,

Space is cramped, and is divided,

Divided into miniscule pieces upon the façade of the body,

My ego is fragile, fragmented, foreclosed, split into pieces,

Reality seems to look like a red serpent and a deviant,

Distributed by further non-egos,

Ideas can be just lies and persecution,

Distributed by further non-entity, non-pieces of my ego,

A sterile wasteland,

Enjoin and con-join,

 

What is this exaltation?

 

Now even the sky scrapers look like ants,

Migrating my body into a folly of administered enjoyment,

It is said what the alternatives should be,

A boundary, a yielding,

An un-damaged force,

That does not want the various split thoughts to unite into one force,

To make a unitized subjective sense.

 

.

Bloodshed, War shed, Asset Stripped (Ethnically Cleansed Areas of The Former Yugoslavia)

We drove through towns ripped apart by war,

My soul dived into the darkest ground that I have ever found,

For what I see leaves nothing to admire,

I cast aside hell,

Only to see hell,

Tears from my eyes pour,

For what should be an eternity

But to spite this,

Tears merely are a gentle flow,

Only the crackle and hiss of fire,

I flee fury,

Driving away,

Bit by bit,

Becoming safer and safer,

As territory, I pass remains devoured in the past and present,

Dark trembling thoughts encounter these realities,

If only for the time being I am not a warrior and I lose nothing of my soul,

Thoughts in this enclave of war are none too happy,

I close chapters of the present and hope that I can be blinded through this time I live,

The day goes on and all I know is to live in the past,

Every time becomes a luxury where normality exists and is known,

I carry on.

Michael Mulvihill hails from Dublin, Ireland

Akeredolu tpoe

WE ARE POETS!
I guess that’s what we do!
We look far away to horizon buried beneath
Closed hearts
We listen to the pump from tired pulmonary
And forge out songs from aching mouths
We teach news song and replace the old
With new notes from the piano of experience
We heal
We hear even from unspoken fears
We lead
We love with power so fierce
We pour out fledging realities
To feed souls
souls who must be pulled out from deep
Within the abyss
From within Hades bossom
We teach love even as amateurs
We breath in the blue rays of the traveling skies
hoping to drink from nature’s boundless seas
And leap up to embrace life
To forge new dances to her discordant tunes
As we made to escape
Like air from punctured balloon
From our food we also feed
Since were are mortal who often fail
Whose hearts also harbour just enough fear
Of yesterday’s fire
Whose smokes blurs the vision of tomorrow
Enough hurts
With impact so strong
Hearts wrench to stop like a metal under crank
Forgive! if Muse sometimes fails to sing through us
Since We also yearn for our own poets
From the lonely worker ploughing the field
To the tired trader calling out the reluntant buyer
from the single mother with untold worries
Of the prying eyes and running mouths of the jobless earth
To the student whose stories of failure out classes
Even Hannibal’s exploits
But with such matchless resolve as to uproot
Kilimanjaro from her majestic throne
Perhaps we had consumed all the healing Muse had to give
For oftentimes we yearn for that which we
we hope to draw hope from a look at the world
Atop Himalayas and soak in fresh breath
Under a lonely pine
And join in the song of the cockoo bird
To open our mouth and drink from the chilling dews
From a rose doting the meadows
And lend hand to a trapped deer as we traverse
Green lands under our blue skies
Hi love
We are poets
poets whose humanity manifest in his craft.

 A STREET HAWKER

That black tray that balances on her head
Is the sea from which she must fish
The blue purse tied around her fragile waist
Is the harpoon to wade off street sharks
The previous night
A bitter creditor had thrown tantrum at mama
She had called her hopeless
One whose porous bossom cannot keep a man
One whose fallopian tube retains so much fliud
A baby must come from every sport
So on this day she went with a rigour unmatched
From pillar to post like a troubadour
With special dexterity she leapt at every beckon
Rivalling even the minaret with her voice
The sorrow in the call
the melancholy
The fear of the war home
All made for a girl conceal behind shattered shells
A girl whose little head housed the dinner of a dozen
Whose pulmonary pumps out unwept sorrows
From Broken dreams and drab days filled with half sleeps on tired floors
The walls of the school want to hug her
To touch and teach her precocious soul
To light that little flame lurking in the depth of her heart
But since she must with reluctance embrace her tray
If  she must not frail
From lack of love and leading light

And since she did not know
The monster who poured the milk of her conception
He had left mama when all she was
Was a fragile little nymph

Akeredolu tpoe, obtained is bachelor’s degree in English language from AAUA. He works as English language instructor at St Gregory college ikare and writes poetry at night. His works have appeared in African writer, Indian periodical and are forthcoming in Antarctica journal and ink and sweats. He lives with is family in Ikare Akoko southwest Nigeria- the town of the twin mountain.

YIOULA IOANNOU PATSALIDOU

I WON’T SLEEP  

Morpheus has forgotten me again

and i will stay awake,

groping at memories

from an old diary.

 

i will bring your picture to life,

i will remember your every charm

every grimace of your face.

 

I’ll detect the tenderness in your voice

amid your mereiless teasing

and far-off, faded words.

 

You liked to tease me

You laughed at my innocence

and inexperience.

 

Once again i won’t sleep

and in spirit i will be with you.

Scratching at these wounds, open for years

to make them bleed again

and be comforted by the thought of you.

 

 

SPRING ROSE        

How this spring rose resembles you!

Exactly like you

the day i tasted your first kiss!

And your loosened hair waved

amid the Mistral’s caresses

beneath the sunset that spread across the plain!

And spring scented the banks of the streams!

And your givering body scented your palms,

perspiring with happiness!

And love climaxed in the petals of a spring rose.

Through the magic touch of a hymenopteric bee.

And spring climaxed in your embrace!

How this scarce rose resembles you!

Exactly like you, exactly like me

when with the sky for a cover

we loved each other and were revived!

 

 

YIOULA IOANNOU PATSALIDOU descend from  the historical wealthy family of GONEMI but the property of her family has been stolen by goverment employees. She was born and raised in Avgorou Famaqusta Cyprus.After graduating from Pancyprian Lyceum of Larnaca she pursued studies in France. 1996 she creates a radio show at a private radio station.

She puplished six collections of short stories and poems.She participates in internationals anthologies dedicated to the universal .peace and she has been awarded many international Prizes.

Daniel Moskowitz

Son of a Whore
In 2016,
Duterte and the Death Squad
Had become the most popular Rock Band
In the WORLD!
To show their appreciation
To all their Fans who had made so many sacrifices,
Duterte and the Death Squad
Decided to perform
Live on International Satellite TV
From the Ciudad de Victoria in Manila.
The estimated audience for this Concert was
Approximately 3 Billion People…….
The largest in Rock n’ Roll History!
Rock fans came to Manila from all over the World
For this Special Event,
Including Shia Muslims from Karbala, Iraq,
Carrying their Balls and Chains
And fans from more remote regions of the Philippines,
Who brought their Crosses,
Planning to have themselves crucified on Stage
In the presence of their Hero,
Rodrigo Duterte.
The Band opened the Concert
With their Worldwide, #1 Smash Hit,
“Son of a Whore”.
“This Guy can really rock,”
Vice-President, Joe Biden,
Exclaimed to President Barack Obama in the White House
“He’s a very colorful character,” President Obama’s replied
Ronald dela Rosa,
Dressed in his Police Uniform,
Launched a thunderously violent guitar solo
With an army of prostitutes,
Twerking in the background.
Miley Cyrus’ jaw dropped,
As she viewed the Broadcast of this Concert
From her home in Studio City California.
“Sure I twerked on stage,” Miley told a reporter,
“But I’m not THAT fucking desperate!”
As the Concert was nearing its end
Rodrigo Duterte himself launched into
An profanity-laced,
Obscenely Misogynistic
Pornographic Rap.
While listening in his home in Diamond Bar, California,
Snoop Dogg was interviewed,
Smoking a Marijuana joint,
“That’s the shizzum of the jizzum,” he said.
“Duterte is the only Rapper,”
“Who can schizzum in the pizzum like That?!”
Finally, Duterte took out an Assault Rifle
And opened fire on the crowd.
It seemed so realistic!
Members of the audience dropped to the ground
While other fans cheered loudly!
As the Crowd filed out of the Ciudad de Victoria,
They all felt that they had experienced
By an extremely high-caliber Rock Band,
Which had conquered the World,
With their Fiery Intensity and Passion.
It was a memorable experience
No one would ever forget!

 

Daniel Moskowitz

He is a revolutionary poet .